Break

I can't do another break-up
feels sad,
as if we break up and – tiring
at least over the years
once we might have smiled for
a month as it is summer.

I want – what do you want—
to let go but I need to hear –
just can't talk.

I don't want to hear the chimes
to cry anymore over the old part of town
It's so tedious.
It's what we're used to.

Etchings

I want to see the pain

as it flows,

coloring the white with thick red.

Sticky tears joining hands to create a flood.

I want to trace my finger in this river of red,

smear it over my skin, make trails and marks.

Paint.

I want to see my pain. 

I wear the marks of my pain

in places you will never see.

On the soles of my feet,

at the back of me knees.

Engravings of mutilation.

Etchings of despair.

I want to control my pain.

I want to own my pain. 

Harming yourself is a form of self-expression said the helpful doctor.

I trace elaborate patterns in my skin, 
etchings of pain.

Like pistes under new fallen snow,

veins hide under my skin.

Light catches the blade

and for a moment I’m stuck in the glare.

It’s pretty.

Then it touches my skin

I feel

I see my pain. 


Recycled - first draft circa 2006